


Salt the Earth

by schmevil



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmevil/pseuds/schmevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never leaving, always letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would have died an ignominious death without the help of Kate and Faith.

Sleeve over sleeve.

Socks. He leaves the green pair, the one his big toes stick out of.

Pants. All of his pants are nice enough.

Two pairs of mittens and one pair of gloves. All of them faded Gryffindor red and gold. One pair has tassels on the side, with little fuzzy gold balls. Like knitted snitches. Sirius traded with Lily Evans for them, finally getting rid of the dreaded heirloom black and silver mittens. In second, no, first year. He's never worn them.

His robes are on the bottom, folded, unfolded, refolded and finally crushed into place. He gave up on the packing charm after the first disastrous non-attempt.

It's summer.

He doesn't remember where he left his hat. Gryffindor Tower, maybe? Maybe Peeves has claimed it for his own by now and threatens the house elves with it. He can see Peeves chasing Kringle around the kitchen with it. It came from Kringle's previous masters, after all. Perhaps it's a good threat. Sirius doesn't know much about the rules that govern house elves.

Should he take the photo album? He can't imagine them forwarding anything to him, but Regulus might. Mother wouldn't like it, but Regulus might, if only to have fun with him. Would he get the album whole?

He digs out a gap along the side of the suitcase and shoves the album into it, spine first. It sticks out just a little and he isn't sure if the suitcase will close. Laid flat, on the bottom of the case, the album isn't a problem.

Likewise, if he tucks it into the pocket of the top, he can fit other things in.

His slippers.

He hasn't found a way to fit in Mal, though. He's not going to carry her in his hand. He doesn't have any other bags. He doesn't want to risk her fur in a shrinking charm. He's good at them, sure - he got top marks - but this is Mal. Her eyes are falling off and her tail is holding on through force of will alone. He leaves the stuffed dragon on the pillow, for now.

(The first time he packed he was angry. He was lying on his back, his hands tucked under his head and his legs crossed at his ankles. Lying -- *just so*. Instead of sprawled, prone, like Regulus would expect him to be. He was precisely casual, to the casual observer, until his brother put his smirk away and pushed off from the side of the door. Sailing away, whistling and swinging his hands at his sides. The door closing with an imperfect thunk-screech-thunk, as it settled into the warped frame.)

His mother doesn't tolerate imperfection, but she does cultivate it when it might be useful.

(Sirius slapped his hands against the wool and cotton covered mattress, as if breaking a fall, and pushed himself up. He didn't kick and stomp his way around his room, he was smart enough not to. He placed his things into the battered brown suitcase he hid behind his bed, with so much care his fingers were almost vibrating. Thank Remus for that idea -- they wouldn't look for a suitcase when his trunk was the more obvious choice.

He had the benefit of Peter's yearly treatises on the fine art of packing and years of rushing out for the last carriage on his side. He only broke a small toy broom.

He had everything unpacked and put away in half the time it took him to pack it in the first place. The suitcase stashed behind the bed again, he stood, resting his forehead against the wall, his arms hanging loose, fingers twitching. His brother ran up the stairs outside his room, yelling something down to his father.

That was the first time.)

There is a hole in the plaster beside the bed. Kreacher refuses to fix anything in Sirius' room and Sirius is tired of patching it up. It always starts with a miniature cave in, at the center of the patch and turns quickly into a flaky landslide, leaving chips of plaster and dust on the parquet. Sirius hates sweeping and usually leaves the mess until it combines with the aggressive dust bunnies from under the bed, to support a good size infestation.

Once, he snuck in a garden gnome from James' house and attempted to urbanize it - that's what Remus called the project. Thackery moved into the hole in the wall and attacked everyone who came within biting distance. He has fond memories of Kreacher fighting the gnome all the way out of the room but he never tried anything like that again.

He's long suspected that Thackery met a spectacularly grim end at his father's hands.

The bureau is littered with the few knicknacks he's collected over the last few birthdays and years of Hogsmede weekends. He leaves a jar of sugar quills untouched. His brother will probably rejoice. The posters too stay tacked up. The Quidditch players rebelled the last time he rolled them up.

He hopes he isn't given away by pants alone. Never take more than you carry easily, he reckons. Leave enough behind to keep them off your trail at first, and then piss them off later. He doesn't need their fucking blankets. That's what James' blankets are for.

(The second time he packed, he ended up throwing his desk chair at the wall. Then he picked it up and threw it at the wall again. His father came in - his mother wanted nothing to do with him - and told him to put it back together. He was just lucky that the suitcase was hidden by his blanket. Even more lucky that he only broke his chair.

The third, fourth and fifth times he packed resulted in: one missing and three cracked tiles under the window; the uneasy seams in the closet door; a squashed mouse.

He regrets the mouse.)

His room is is a thick network of scars.

It's not like--

He yanks open the bottom drawer of his bureau. Shoves it closed.

(The sixth and seventh times were much the same. Sirius has gotten used to having to fix things himself and if he can't figure it out, it doesn't get done. Sirius has never been good at putting things back together.)

At school--

(--everything is different.)

The next drawer is filled with stoppered bottles of old potions, successfully transfigured pincushions, leaves and spoons, and old scrolls of Divination homework. The bottles clack against each other as he riffles through it. Where the--

He slams the drawer shut with his knee and it jams.

(It's not like anyone would notice his fucking pants.)

He rattles the drawer back open, trying to settle it on its track. One side falls into place, leaving the other awkwardly scraping against the inside of the bureau. His parents have a passionate aversion to noise that isn't theirs and he's always this close to being discovered.

(McGonagal used to send home reports whenever he gets in trouble. His parents were supposed to read them over and send them back signed. She thought they would eventually have a positive effect on his behaviour. She insisted on explaining. His parents never, ever mention them.)

He reaches underneath and pushes up. The drawer cracks against the one above it. He lets it fall. It doesn't fall into place. It falls further out of place, instead.

(James' parents still receive regular owls, but she gave up on Sirius' when they failed to generate a single howler.

He fucking hates--

He fucking hates her pitying looks. She hides them well.)

He rattles it again. Pulls it almost all the way out and shakes it. Pushes it back in and is rewarded with a long, loud shriek.

(His parents never, ever mention them. They prefer silence.)

He didn't know wood could shriek.

He pulls but the drawer decides not to move. At all. Sirius steps back, slams his foot against the bureau and grips the drawer. He pulls again, muscles bunching painfully along his back and he hisses through clenched teeth.

The drawer creeps along, screaming all the way. Finally, it falls out. He stumbles with the sudden weight and drops it on his bare toes.

His breathing is a thin whine and the only thing he hears.

He picks up the drawer. Doesn't feel the weight, just swings it forward as he turns. Lets go.

The dovetail joints of the drawer hold, while the plaster all but crumples. The bottom panel collapses inward when the drawer hits the floor and potions spray across the parquet. Pebbles of glass skitter past his feet.

He just--

Breathes.

Thump, thump, thump and Regulus is up the stairs and pushing open Sirius' door. "Hey Sirius! Should we call St. Mungo's?"

"Fuck off."

His smirking face has Sirius across the room in seconds. He slams into the door shoulder first.

Regulus is crushed between the door and the frame, and when Sirius opens the door just enough to push him against the opposite wall, he can't resist. The door shuts smoothly, this time.

He has a few seconds of silence before the predictable whine. "I'm telling mum!"

"Fuck off, shit-face."

Regulus tramps down the stairs, not even bothering to reply.

Sirius slides down the door, landing with a thump. He rests his forearms against his knees and lets his head fall back.

Maybe Kreacher won't notice if he steals some cleaning supplies. He should put the suitcase away.


End file.
